like new year's resolutions
by Sang-Argente
Summary: He let Voldemort pet his hair and curl a hand around his neck. He leaned into Voldemort's guiding hand on his waist and curled into his sleeping embrace. It only happened because he let it.


There are things wrong with their relationship. Harry knows this. In the beginning, he used to keep a list, adding to it every time he noticed something wrong. Of course, it started with _it's not really a relationship because he kidnapped me_ and he did eventually give it up because the slightest thought of the list would throw Voldemort into a rage. Rages were bad, the icy peace that settled in when Harry did as told was better.

That was the first lesson.

Harry had a lot of lessons, much more than he'd gotten to finish at Hogwarts. He'd only made it through fifth year. The general disbelief at Voldemort's return gave the Dark Lord the best opportunity to steal him away and keep him, mold him into the perfect consort. That had included his lessons, both academic and prurient.

 _Don't look him in the eyes._

 _Keep your head down unless spoken to._

 _Don't flinch from his touch._

 _Don't show attention to anyone but him._

 _Follow behind him._

 _Kneel at his chair._

 _Never take your collar off._

And the most important lesson, _don't ask about the war_.

Of course, Harry didn't have to ask about the war. Loss in battle was another thing that threw Voldemort into a rage. Victory left him...not affectionate but more than he usually was. Stalemates were just like the peace of the household, cold and easily broken. Then, it was Harry's turn to be affectionate.

In the beginning, he'd silently cheered whenever Voldemort would reign Hell over his followers. That meant the Light was winning, his friends were safe. Whenever the Death Eaters got brave and taunted him, he cried. Not because of the personal torture, but because he knew that meant he would recognize the names in the next morning's Daily Prophet.

Later, however, he sat with a tiny half-smile through it all. He was happy when the Death Eaters were tortured because he hated them. They took Voldemort's attention away and then had the audacity to fail him, it was the punishment they deserved. He was also happy when they were happy because it meant Voldemort was happy. He'd be lavished with attention, gentle touches bringing him to pleasurable peaks unseen long into the night.

Which was another thing he'd learned to love. He'd been a virgin when he was taken, untouched and unwilling. Strangely, Voldemort hadn't forced him into anything other than sharing a bed. He liked to have Harry close, protected he said. The touching hadn't started until Harry allowed it.

He thrived under Voldemort's teachings, learned everything quicker and with more understanding than he had at Hogwarts. Voldemort had said his underachieving was an attempt to keep his friends, the failure and the know-it-all, from getting jealous and leaving him. Harry just wanted to be loved, he said knowingly. That's why he performed so well for Voldemort, to please him. And he was very pleasing. Voldemort practically threw praise at him, whether it was for a well-written essay or making even Bellatrix scream under his _Crucio_. Harry had never felt so appreciated, so wanted, in his life and slowly reached out for that want in the physical sense.

He let Voldemort pet his hair and curl a hand around his neck. He let him place possessive kisses on his lips and then stretched his neck for the even more possessive bites. He leaned into Voldemort's guiding hand on his waist and curled into his sleeping embrace. It only happened because he let it.

When the Ministry had fallen and Voldemort personally tortured and killed Umbridge in front of him, Harry had joined him in the bath later that night and covered his body with the loving touches of hands too enthusiastic to be nervous. As a reward, Voldemort had washed him gently and carried him to bed.

When Snape had fallen to friendly fire in a raid, Harry called him out of a meeting and into bed, spreading his legs with coyness. The next night, Voldemort sat in the rescheduled meeting with Harry on his lap, listening to details that would give him the opportunity to escape. Instead, he sat peacefully under Voldemort's steady hand and didn't even blush when one of their vampire allies commented on being such a well trained pet.

When Pettigrew was slowly sliced apart under Voldemort's instruction on the anniversary of his parents' death, Harry had watched, enthralled by the sight, from his seat on Voldemort's lap. As the night went on, he'd allowed him to strip him bare and show him off to the masses. He'd ridden Voldemort's cock with an intensity born in him at the sight of a traitor's blood spilled on pale marble. He'd screamed his pleasure to the high ceilings of the meeting hall, letting every follower, friend, and ally know exactly how good Voldemort was.

It wasn't until the Battle of Hogwarts that Harry realized how much he believed that. By that point, he was kept at Voldemort's side at all times and heard all he heard. He was kept in soft robes of vivid scarlet- the color of Voldemort's eyes- with a thick leather collar buckled around his neck. It wasn't locked on with magic because the point was for Harry to keep it there because he was told to, because he wanted to. He stayed barefoot, at first to lessen the chance of escape but now because he liked to feel the power thrumming through their castle under his bare feet.

By that point, he sat on Voldemort's lap not as a trophy, but to whisper in his ear. He heard things, from the grunts and the inner circle and the allies, who were all under the impression that he was either too dumb or too scared to tell Voldemort. He kept his hand over Voldemort's wand to keep him from torturing those poor fools who really didn't deserve it or to help him torture those who did. His other hand was kept buried in Voldemort's dark curls, the reptilian visage long abandoned.

He was the perfect consort and at the Battle of Hogwarts he proved it. Voldemort had taken him out as a morale booster and a recruitment prop. After all, Harry was the canvas off which the Death Eaters read their lord's emotions and if the Boy Who Lived wouldn't stay with the Light side, why should anyone else?

Dumbledore realized this and immediately tried to undermine Voldemort's efforts throughout the battle. His desperation rose until he finally begged for Harry to return.

All the fighting had paused, eagerly awaiting his response.

"Headmaster," Harry had said softly, all too aware of the tense hand wrapped around the back of his neck. "I loved you once, as family. You were everything to me. When my Lord Voldemort took me away, I spent days begging the gods to help you rescue me. Until the day I realized they couldn't, because you weren't even trying."

He had lifted a hand and laid it over the one now resting calmly on his shoulder.

"You used me like a weapon and threw me away like a broken toy. My Lord Voldemort took me in, protected me and loved me. Why would I betray him for you?"

"Why wouldn't you?!" A voice had screamed from the crowds. There was a ripple of movement as Ron Weasley pushed his way through the still bodies. "We're your family!"

"My family is dead," Harry had said calmly. "You are nothing more than people I once knew, standing on the other side of the battlefield. That makes you the enemy."

That crushing blow to the Light side's morale had left them open to a swift defeat by Voldemort and his followers. It wasn't until after the battle, Dumbledore's body cooling in the grass and Hogwarts under their control, that Harry learned the truth. Voldemort had stolen Harry away and Dumbledore had seen it, but he had lied to everyone else. To them, Harry was just sequestered away somewhere learning all he could to defeat the Dark Lord, as prophesied.

"Prophecy," Voldemort had snorted later that night, curled around Harry in their bed. "I fell for it once, this is true, but Divination hasn't ever been a valid branch of magic. Prophecies are as fake as Lucius's blonde hair."

Harry had giggled under his breath at the dig at the older Malfoy. "I think grey hairs are his real enemy."

"Of course they are, they're a sign of getting old."

"You have grey hairs," Harry had pointed out, impishly.

"Mine make me look distinguished," Voldemort had shot back before sighing. "Besides, age is irrelevant when you're immortal, my little horcrux. Something you should think about."

"I don't want to live forever," Harry had replied, as he always did. "Not without you."

"You won't be without me."

"I will if you keep acting so reckless during battle."

Voldemort had smiled and kissed Harry's frown away. "Battles are over, the war is won. Dumbledore was the last thorn in my side and Hogwarts my last conquest. There will be resistance, but our Death Eaters are more than capable of taking care of that."

And it had been the truth. Uprisings were smothered before they could even begin and, eventually, legislations were flying too fast through the ministry for people to have a chance to complain. It led to a peaceful ruling that had, so far, lasted two centuries.

 _That,_ Harry thought to himself as he stared at his reflection in his vanity mirror, _was all thanks to Emperor Voldemort, whose ego was too big to stop at Minister._

"All these years and I still catch you mocking me."

"Marvolo," Harry greeted warmly, turning toward the voice. _Mind reading, definitely wrong_. "Where have you been?"

"I've spent the last hour roaming the halls looking for you," Marvolo complained reaching out to wrap himself around Harry, watching their reflections in the mirror with pleasure. "Of course, I find you staring at yourself and adding to your little list again."

 _Whining, definitely wrong_ , Harry thought amused before saying, "After all these years, it's still strange to see myself without a collar around my neck. And I'll be adding to my list well into the next millennium."

"Strange, but good," Marvolo agreed, eying the sparkling ring on Harry's left hand. "It's nice that you think of the next millennium, though you might not make it."

"I will," Harry disagreed. He watched Marvolo carefully as he spoke again. "I'm ready, Marvolo. I want to be yours forever. I want to be immortal."

"Harry," Marvolo breathed into his hair, tightening his embrace almost painfully. "My little horcrux. I knew when I took you, you would make me the happiest Dark Lord in history. You would win me the war and make me Emperor."

"I didn't do that, you did. I just followed, like I am now."

"And I love you for that."

"I love you, too."

Yes, there were things wrong with their relationship, mainly how it began, but Harry wouldn't have it any other way.

* * *

 **A/N:** Written for kyrilu for the tomarrytine gift exchange on tumblr. Title from stockholm syndrome by blink-182.

Please review!

~S.


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